how you survived the war
by prouvaires
Summary: Modern AU: Sansa Stark is sent into the high-flying law firm Casterly Rock as a secretary to uncover their secrets and help her brother bring them toppling down. Plans like this, however, have always had an uncanny habit of falling into pieces around her.
1. chapter i

**notes**: last november, i promised _ellie_ (thorinoakshield on tumblr) that i would write her a sansa/jaime fic as part of my advent calendar. however, as most of you have noticed, i failed miserably with that and am still only on about day six. while trying to catch up, a very simple fact would not stop bothering me: i have been wanting to write a modern au game of thrones fic for a very, very long time. a second fact also bothered me: i am incapable of commitment to anything, but especially multi-chapters. therefore i have (probably foolishly) decided to kill two birds with one stone and attempt a multi-chapter modern au asoiaf story. please let me know what you think of it.

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how you survived the war

x

Sansa Stark stood in front of her mirror examining her hair with an abstracted expression of distaste. She could hear Robb shifting on the bed behind her, the springs creaking with his movements, but ignored him utterly. Instead, she lifted a dull brown chunk of hair from beside her cheek and began to pick it apart strand by strand, knowing her brother would be able to read her irritation clearly in the cold sharp lines of her back and the unusual inelegance of her movements.

Her patience was rewarded before long. Robb cleared his throat, a low rumbling sound, and after an indecisive exhale finally spoke up.

"You know you have to. Baelish is right. You're far too distinctive otherwise, they'll recognise you straight away."

Sansa held her silence for a moment longer, twisting that single strand around her forefinger so tightly the tip turned purple, and then finally turned to face her brother.

"I look horrific," she informed him shortly, tugging the glasses she didn't need away from her face, scraping her hair irritably off her brow, "You know brown hair looks dreadful on me. I look _so _much more like Arya." A delicate shudder accompanied her final words, and at that Robb stopped bothering to try to hide his amusement.

"Because that's so terrible," he told her with a laugh, and Sansa's eyes caught sharply at his face. He subsided quickly, and the next moment his gaze met hers ashamedly, a rough red blush darkening his cheeks beneath the two-day stubble.

"It's okay to be happy now and then, Sansa," he told her in a low tone, though it was easy enough to tell that he didn't much believe his own words, "It's been a year."

Sansa dropped her eyes first, turning back to examine her reflection in the mirror. Twelve months, yes, but she still scrubbed her skin raw in the shower every morning, trying to wash away the blood she hadn't spilled. Robb coughed again, and her eyes lifted instinctively, meeting his mirrored.

Neither of them said a word, but Sansa read all the things he couldn't say as easily as breathing. She knew he read them in return—_it's my fault, he was there with me, his blood on my clothes_—and she never loved him more than when he stayed silent. Instead of speaking, he simply rose from the bed and crossed the room towards her in six short strides, his arms wrapping tight around her shoulders in a wordless gesture of understanding.

"You're going to be great," he murmured into her ear, and the warmth of him against her back was almost as reassuring as his words. She never realised how cold she was until someone embraced her—then her winter skin thawed and she felt summer in her veins again, sure and steady as the sun.

x

The next morning found her standing outside the tall building where Casterly Rock had its offices, her reflection staring at her seriously from the shiny front. She almost didn't recognise herself, which she supposed was the point. Dull brown hair, big glasses, a practical but unfashionable suit (she would do something about that just as soon as Robb left to fly home)… in short, her physical transformation was complete. And, god, did she just hate it.

Swallowing down a deep sigh, Sansa squared her shoulders and headed purposefully for the revolving doors, putting a swing in her hips the way Robb's girlfriend Jeyne always did, determined that anybody who looked closely would see only a new secretary and not Sansa Stark, daughter of murdered Eddard and sister to volatile Robb, the man threatening to tear Casterly Rock down from its position at the top of the law world.

Quite unable to bring herself to flirt with the young blonde man behind reception (all she could think was Lannister, _Lannister_, and a brief flash of that night with blood splashing warm up her face and laughter from all around) although she knew that other girls probably would have, Sansa instead introduced herself quietly and steadily, her hands tight around her bag to stop them shaking.

"Hi, I'm Alayne. Alayne Stone. Mr Baelish should be expecting me?"

The receptionist opened his mouth to reply, but a smooth voice cut across him before a single syllable emerged, sending Sansa whirling to face the newcomer.

"I am indeed," Petyr Baelish announced with a smirk, and Sansa swallowed again, forcing a bright smile onto her face.

"Uncle Petyr," she greeted with a false cheerfulness that only Robb would have seen through, "It's been a while."

"Indeed," Baelish replied, and opened his arms to her, that unreadable little smirk still perfectly in place. Sansa hesitated for only the faintest second before going into his hug, well aware that she had to play this part absolutely perfectly for this all to work. Petyr's hands rested too low on her waist when he embraced her, and the warmth of him against her was not pleasant the way Robb's or her mother's was. It seemed to freeze her insides further rather than thawing them, and Sansa was not sure how much she would be able to stand of hugs like this.

He pulled away before too long, though, and held her out at arm's length to examine. Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin just a little, and that smirk wove its way back onto his face.

"How like your mother you're looking," he commented, and before Sansa had any time at all to read into that he was sweeping her away towards a chromatic lift, jabbing at the button for the twentieth floor and explaining about the way the company worked so swiftly she could barely keep up.

x

By the time they reached Petyr's office, Sansa had had the ranking inside the firm explained to exhaustion to her, from the temporary CEO Cersei Lannister to her son Joffrey and the senior partners, of which Petyr was one. In truth, Sansa had known the workings of the place inside-out before ever setting foot inside the building. She had spent endless nights curled up in front of the television in their home up North while her younger brothers played Playstation and Arya was at what seemed to be endless football practices.

She knew names, faces, positions, and could identify pretty much every case every top lawyer in the firm had ever won. She knew from her research that Petyr was by far the most successful at Casterly Rock, but his achievements were vastly overshadowed by the flair and volatility of another of the senior partners—the CEO's twin brother, Jaime Lannister. He was nicknamed the "Kingslayer", since he had been solely responsible ten years previously for successfully prosecuting the immensely powerful and cruel crime lord, Aerys Targaryen, in one of his very first cases as a qualified lawyer. Aerys had died in prison not long afterwards (probably at the hands of one of the many men he'd screwed over, although nobody ever had the evidence or inclination to look into it), and although Sansa would never admit it even to herself, she was very much looking forward to catching a glimpse of the handsome golden Kingslayer.

"This is where you'll be," Petyr announced to her as they passed a desk boasting a splendid view right down the long corridor and an even better one over the Thames thanks to the windows beside it. Sansa made a mental note to herself to remember to watch the office instead of the city outside—Robb had always teased her about her inclination to getting caught up daydreaming about being one of the birds that flew high above the city, looking down on it like a god.

"And this is where I'll be," Petyr concluded with a flourish, gesturing her into his office. Sansa thanked him politely as she preceded him inside, and at his urging took a seat in front of his desk. The office was certainly very nice, sleek and modern, but it was a little too clinical for Sansa's liking. Nothing seemed to have Petyr's stamp on it—it could have been the office of anybody.

"Your aunt sends her regards, by the way," Petyr added as he seated himself opposite her, straightening a couple of files on the desk in front of him before linking his fingers and resting his chin on them pensively. Sansa thanked him again and returned the sentiment—she had never especially liked her aunt Lysa, considering her rather too unconventional, but of course she'd never let anybody know that.

"So here's how it's going to work," Petyr continued, dispensing with the pleasant conversation, his tone suddenly all business, "You're just a regular secretary, although of course being my niece it's expected you'll come to me if you've got any problems. So long as you don't interrupt any important meetings, I don't mind when you come to me. I'll need you to answer the phone, sort my schedule out, charm the occasional client, that sort of thing. Just be as polite and as vacant as possible, that's all they'll expect."

Sansa nodded, lips pressed tightly together. She'd spent plenty of time in the company of illustrious and important people thanks to her father, and was well-versed in the art of keeping her mouth shut and appearing utterly clueless. She intended to be utterly underestimated by everybody in the firm—her uncle included.

"The other partners will probably come by fairly regularly," Petyr continued, uncapping a pen and beginning to scrawl something unintelligible on a notepad, "You'll learn pretty quickly which ones you need to get rid of and which ones to let through. If Cersei comes and I'm busy, please do your best to get rid of her. She has the most appalling timing and almost always butts in when I'm in the middle of something extremely important."

Sansa, who had been duped by Cersei Lannister in the past at social events, privately considered that the CEO's timing was probably a lot less random than her uncle believed. Sansa understood a lot about the way Cersei operated, and she was of the secret opinion that there was almost nothing the woman did without careful consideration. Every move was a political tactic.

"Yes, Uncle Petyr," she answered dutifully, keeping her face smooth and unreadable, "Is there anything else?"

"No," Petyr replied distractedly, opening a drawer to rummage around inside, and seemed so absorbed in this task that Sansa eventually rose to go to her own desk. He stopped her halfway to the door, however, with a cry of, "Wait!"

Sansa halted and turned dutifully, and found that little smirk back in place. She decided that she was probably going to grow to hate that expression before too long at all.

"Yes?" she replied politely, clutching at her bag again as though it could protect her.

"I take my coffee white with two sugars," he announced, and the smirk grew infinitely more unsettling as he added, "And get some better clothes. Something fitted. You'll see what the other girls wear. You won't last five days if you keep dressing like that."

Sansa took a glance down at the baggy jacket and ill-fitting skirt, and although she'd already decided to revamp the wardrobe Robb and her mother had deemed suitable, the idea of changing suddenly rankled. Reminding herself firmly that Petyr Baelish was pretty much the only person in this building who wasn't her enemy, Sansa nodded once more and promised.

With an airy wave of her uncle's hand, Sansa was dismissed, and she fled to her desk outside the confining glass walls of his office. She could feel his gaze on her back still as she sat down, but after several deep breaths it was less scalding. Setting her bag down at her feet, Sansa pulled the only photograph out of it that she'd dared bring—her and Robb as very young children, unrecognisable from the young adults they were now. Something about having her brother there with her made it all a little bit easier to face, and by the time Petyr buzzed through to her to request a cup of coffee, Sansa was calmly tapping away at the computer to update his schedule for the week ahead.


	2. chapter ii

**a/n**: i've realised i forgot a disclaimer, so here it is for the whole story: i do not own a song of ice and fire, the world, or any of the characters. they all belong to george r r martin and i make no claim to them. this is a fan work with no intent of making profit or stealing credit.

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how you survived the war

_chapter two_

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One week later, Sansa was confident about her job. She knew what to do in almost any situation, had learnt to anticipate a large amount of her uncle's needs, and had already proven twice that her courteous and kind nature was a great help with overstressed clients. Even the CEO had taken note (though that encounter had left Sansa trembling so hard she'd almost spilled coffee all over herself after Cersei departed).

Despite her success, however, Sansa was miserable. She felt trapped in the shiny building, locked in behind her desk with Petyr's eyes following her movements far more than she felt comfortable with. Besides that, the loneliness was starting to burn in her bones, a numbing freezing ache that sat too low inside her. Robb had flown back North six days ago and the family's London flat was incredibly empty with just her in it. Making friends with the other secretaries could have helped, perhaps, but since her father's death Sansa had found it impossible to achieve the levity needed for casual friendly conversation with people her own age. They just seemed too young, to her, too unaware of what horrors the world could inflict. Add to the constant wracking fear that she'd be uncovered and hauled up in front of the Lannisters as a spy, and it was small wonder that she spent as much time alone as possible.

So she simply sat at her desk and concentrated entirely on her job and tried not to mind too much that everybody in the cafeteria at lunchtime avoided her at her lonely table.

Unhappiness aside, there were some things about being at Casterly Rock that Sansa was enjoying. The politics of the place fascinated her—the other senior partners worked on the same floor as Petyr, so Sansa saw a lot of them and overheard many of their conversations and arguments. She'd worked out the unofficial ranking system before three days were out: Tyrion Lannister, the CEO's younger brother, was definitely widely considered the more sensible and definitely the most skilful of the Lannister children, but most people were wary of him. Sansa was too—those mismatched eyes seemed to read into her far more astutely than anybody else's, and she always had the unsettling feeling that he was hearing every unsaid word in all their brief, superficial conversations. That being said, he was always polite to her, and Sansa thought that if it wasn't for the fact that all she could see when she looked at any Lannister was a pair of hands awash with her father's blood then she might have liked him.

Petyr was respected but generally disliked, she had also learnt, his devious methods envied because of their regular successes but not especially enjoyed by those around him. There were also rumours flying around that much of his income came from illegal prostitution rings and gambling rackets, which wouldn't surprise her at all. She supposed she shouldn't complain—he was fond of bringing her little gifts every time he went out into the city, and little glass birds and pretty photos decorated her desk now, undoubtedly purchased with the proceeds of whatever he was doing on the side. Sansa couldn't understand why somebody on a senior partner's salary would need an extra source of income, but then there was a lot she didn't understand about men.

The only person everybody trusted less than Petyr was the firm's head accountant, a fat perfumed man called Varys. Since he'd barely addressed six words to Sansa, all of them polite and courteous, she was trying to refrain from forming an opinion of him—yet she'd formed one all the same. She thought, all in all, that she'd rather have him on her side than anybody else in the firm, since he seemed to know absolutely everything about everyone and what they were up to. Since he also acknowledged her existence where many of the higher ranked individuals simply ignored her, she was inclined to like him so far.

She was contemplating this on her second Wednesday at Casterly Rock, staring absent-mindedly out of the window and watching a pair of pigeons tussling in the sky. She should probably have been doing some filing, but since her uncle was out for lunch she was taking half an hour off to daydream, picking at her own sandwich as she did so. Her loneliness had begun to put her off her food, and she had so little appetite that the cheese and tomato concoction beneath her fingers could not have appealed to her any less than it currently did.

Sansa's mind had just begun to wander towards the one senior partner she'd not even caught a glimpse of yet, the one they called the Kingslayer, when a pair of hands descended onto the desk in front of her and snapped her out of her reverie so suddenly that she jumped and upset a stack of papers onto the floor. Crimson in the face, Sansa bent hurriedly to collect them up, mumbling apologies until she had them all in a haphazard pile. She attempted to collect up her dignity before returning to an upright position—an impossible task, since her hair was now wild across her face and tangling in her eyelashes—and received a further shock when she finally looked up and met the laughing green eyes of none other than Jaime Lannister himself.

"Oh my God," she blurted out, utterly horrified to have met him for the first time in such a state, "I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't see you, I was—"

"Daydreaming," he cut in, lifting his hands off the desk now, still grinning broadly, "I gathered. You didn't even stir when I was two metres away. What can possibly be so interesting out there?"

Sansa took a deep breath and did her best to calm herself down. She knew Jaime was the least likely of any of them at Casterly Rock to uncover her true identity—he was nowhere near the reader of others that his colleagues were, by all accounts—but the sheer force of his good-looks had taken her apart and she knew she had to piece herself back together before he realised what an effect he'd had.

"Uh," she began eloquently, but then with a great silent effort pulled herself together and took control of the situation again, "Nothing, really, sir. Just some pigeons. Can I help you with something? I'm afraid Mr Baelish is out to lunch."

But Jaime Lannister was staring out of the window now, grin diminished into something softer, apparently oblivious to the fact that Sansa was talking. Quite unsure what to do with herself now, Sansa settled for folding her hands into her lap and waiting patiently for him to return his attention to her.

He did so quite suddenly several long seconds later, eyes meeting hers with an odd, detached look in them. Sansa felt the urge to lean away from it, but resisted. There seemed to be something unsettling—no, that was not quite right. Not unsettling, but unsettled. Something unsettled about him. The look disappeared shortly, however, replaced with more of that light sardonic amusement, and he waved a hand loftily.

"No, that's quite alright, I'll come back later. It's not important."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left. Sansa let out the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding once he'd turned the corner at the end of the corridor, and fled to the bathroom the moment she deemed it safe.

She came to herself staring at her own reflection in the mirror, pale and worried, and took several deep breaths. She wasn't even entirely sure why he'd affected her so—or, in fact, maybe she was. She couldn't bear to think to herself that she could find him so attractive when his hands were stained with her father's blood just as surely as his sister's. But she had, horrifyingly. Her eyes had caught on too many of his details to deny, from the grace of his long strong fingers to the way the light sat just right on his hair.

But, she told herself firmly, determinedly raising her own hands to tuck her hair back into its neat ponytail, everyone knew he was handsome. He looked like the sort of guy who'd be more at home in armour on a white stallion rushing in to save fair maidens than in a suit in an office. Sansa's secret ideal man, to be honest. But this Prince Charming had hands stained as red as any of the others here, and Sansa couldn't wash the image out of her mind.

After splashing cold water on her face, Sansa dried herself off quickly, and was back at her desk sorting out the pile of files she'd disturbed by the time her uncle returned from lunch with an elaborate chocolate in the shape of a fish for her.

x

It only took until the next day for Sansa to find out why Wednesday had been the first time she'd met the Kingslayer—a pair of paralegals in the photocopier room were gossiping about it when she went in to copy some documents for Petyr. She discovered, listening carefully to their unabashedly loud conversation, that he'd been away to Cardiff to the Welsh branch of the firm. Apparently Cersei was worried about discontent amongst the ranks there, which didn't entirely surprise Sansa. Robb had told her, as he was filling her in on the finer points of the situation that she had yet to understand, that the old CEO's brother Stannis was looking to stir up dissention in the company and ultimately lead it himself.

("He's got something up his sleeve, Sansa," Robb had told her one night, staring out of the window, his attention clearly barely on her at all, "I don't know what. Something big. Something to take the Lannisters down. I think… I think Dad might have known. What it was, I mean. That's why they killed him.")

Sansa, reflecting privately on this, wasn't surprised. Her father had certainly been out much more regularly than before in the weeks leading up to his death, muttering about blonde and black hair by himself in the kitchen when he thought nobody was around. Sansa was sitting on a growing, uneasy feeling that all hell was about to break loose. With Robb in the North, Stannis in Wales, and the Lannisters sat in the middle, the tension was unceasing. And Sansa knew, without a doubt, that however much she might want to flee back to her mother and brothers and sisters, she could not when she was so uniquely positioned to help them.

So with the news about Stannis' disquiet burning foreboding into her bones, Sansa began to reach out tentatively for information she could use to help Robb.

She found it over the next week or so, just from listening as she had been, and taking a couple more risks, lingering in corridors where she oughtn't to be in the hopes of gathering tidbits here and there. She caught a couple—that Stannis Baratheon was only days from seizing control of his branch of the company and making his hostile intent towards the Lannisters known, that his younger brother Renly looked set to make a play for the company too, that the Tyrell family had allied with Renly when their daughter Margaery married him two weeks previously. She learned also that the Lannisters feared the Tyrells mostly for their wealth, but for a series of other reasons too. This last she learnt from Cersei and Jaime themselves—passing Jaime's office as she headed to the fax machine with some of Petyr's files, she saw the CEO and her brother closeted together in his office, golden heads pressed almost against each other as they poured over some document.

On her way back, they were both gone, so Sansa took a deep breath and slipped in, prepared with a file to pretend to need to give to the Kingslayer if either should return. Sansa's nerves were all on fire, every noise making her jump, as she leant over the desk to try to see what they had been looking at.

It turned out to be a list of the Tyrell's bank accounts and expenses (where they had unearthed that, Sansa would never know), but before she had a chance to peek at the files beneath, the sound of a door opening set her fleeing, and she escaped undiscovered but with as many questions as ever.

She relayed what she found at night to Robb over the phone, making sure to get all the information over before they descended into more idle chatter. She tried to make light of it, but Robb had always been able to read her like a book, even as she grew and learned to guard her emotions better.

Several weeks into her time with the company, she was curled up on her sofa with a glass of wine in one hand and socked feet tucked under a blanket, the city outside dark but unsleeping, traffic roaring up the road at the end of her street. Robb's voice down the telephone was low but playful, anxious not to wake sleeping Rickon.

"Put him in his own bed," Sansa grumped, not entirely seriously, "He should be there anyway, why is in your room? He's fifteen, for God's sake."

"Be nice," Robb admonished, but Sansa could hear the whisper of amusement in his tone, "He looks adorable—and I haven't been able to claim that about him in like eight years. Besides, he'll only wake up and cause trouble. You know what he's like."

Sansa, unfortunately, did. It was a total mystery to her how her parents could have raised three children perfectly able to behave themselves and yet produce Arya and Rickon at the same time, so wild you'd think they were half wolf. Giving an exasperated sigh at the reminder of her younger sister, Sansa took a sip of wine and inquired, "And how's Arya?"

"Ugh," Robb exclaimed, but the sound was all fondness, "Nightmare, as per usual. She just took herself out of uni last week to go and visit that bloody Waters fellow."

Sansa smiled into her wine, amused despite herself—in any other situation, she was perfectly certain that Robb and Gendry would have got on like a house on fire. Unfortunately, however, Robb had first met Gendry stark naked coming out of the shower in Arya's ensuite with his baby sister hidden shaking with laughter beneath the bedclothes behind him, and not taken it well.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Robb muttered darkly, jolting Sansa back to the present, and she couldn't hide her laughter at that point.

"You gave him a black eye and a concussion," she reminded him in between giggles, ignoring his huffing on the other end of the phone, "I think that's punishment enough. All he's done is love Arya."

"He's a git," Robb announced grumpily, only just remembering to modulate his volume in time, "I don't like him."

"I know, I know," Sansa soothed, gentle now, amusement tucking itself away again, "But he's doing a good degree, he'll get a good job when he's done—you know they're low on engineers at the moment, they're pushing people towards studying it—and he really does adore her. We've both seen the way he looks at her."

"Hmph," was the only reply, and Sansa bit back another smile. Robb took his duties as an older brother seriously, and to be fair she'd only ever had cause to be grateful for them. When she'd first started dating Joffrey Lannister during business school, she'd been bowled over by his charm and his good looks and his confidence. She'd clung to that, long after it had been sensible, determined that she'd find her prince again if she just held tightly enough to how it had been at the beginning.

It had been Robb, in the end, who'd found the bruises beneath her shirt, mapped the red fingerprints hidden beneath her sleeves, dragged gentle hands over the fractured expanse of that rib. And it had been Robb who'd tried to storm into Casterly Rock to beat the other boy into a pulp, Robb who'd been pulled off by security guards and sent packing despite having all the rage of a pack of wolves howling inside his head. Sansa had never loved him more than when he came back that evening with his head hanging low and bruises on his face from the rough handling of the security guards, more ashamed than he could put into words that he'd failed her.

She had forgiven him, instantly and utterly, and they'd never been closer than that night where he swore to bring her Joffrey's head on a plate and then extracted a promise from her to never see her ex again. Sansa, her fingers light on his bruises, his head in her lap, had had no difficulty promising at all.

She was remembering that evening now, her fingers winding into her blanket, and clearly Robb was too because he soon cleared his throat and put a tentative question to her.

"Have you… have you seen him? Joffrey, I mean. If you… if you can't stand it, you can come away. Come home."

"No," Sansa cut him off instantly, voice sharper than she intended, "I mean… no. I haven't seen him. Everyone says he's useless, he just stays at their house and plays around with whatever takes his fancy. But even if he was here… I hate him, Robb, I really do. But I won't be afraid of him. I refuse to be. He doesn't deserve it."

Robb went very quiet for a long time on the other end of the phone. Sansa waited, content to just listen to the sound of his steady breathing, as reassuring to her as it had been since they were young children.

Finally, he spoke up again, and his tone was wondering now, "You used to be afraid of so much, you know? I mean, really. Spiders, horror films, rollerskates, dirt…"

"Snowmen," Sansa chimed in, smiling despite herself, "I know. And I am. I still am, I mean. Scared of all those things. But, I just… since Dad died, you know? I figure there's so much more to be scared of than silly things like that. Things like the Lannisters being able to stick around getting away with all of that. They've got so much influence, Robb. They can do anything they want. And we can't let them. We just can't."

Robb's voice was the most certain it had been all night when he replied, "We won't."

The conversation turned lighter from that point onwards, Sansa inquiring after Jeyne and Robb dodging the questions, always so embarrassed when talking about his personal life, until Sansa was laughing demanding more details and Robb was getting more and more obstinate. Eventually there was a commotion on the other end of the phone and from the angry grumbles Sansa deduced that Rickon had woken up in a temper, teenage testosterone making him even more tetchy than usual, and with a regretful sigh bid Robb goodbye so that he can deal with it.

That night, alone in her big bed, Sansa found herself picturing the map of Britain in her head, the two Baratheons and Robb all poised with their concentration intent on London where the Lannisters sat, and when she finally fell asleep her dreams were full of stags and wolves and lions tearing each other to pieces on a fiery blood-stained field.


End file.
